


A Lesson in Pyrotechnics

by flightofthelunamoths



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Aftermath of Torture, Caring Greg Lestrade, Fireworks, Fluff and Hurt/Comfort, How Do I Tag, I Don't Even Know, M/M, Multi, Mycroft Being Mycroft, PTSD John, PTSD Sherlock, Polyamory, Protective Greg Lestrade, Protective Mycroft, Threats of Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-08
Updated: 2020-07-08
Packaged: 2021-03-05 00:07:13
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,230
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25145167
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/flightofthelunamoths/pseuds/flightofthelunamoths
Summary: Established couple John, Sherlock, and Greg intend to shelter in place and spend a cozy night together at home in 221B during London's annual Bonfire Night festivities, wary of the chaos for fear of it potentially triggering John's PTSD. But when Greg suddenly gets called away on a case, things begin to unravel at Baker Street in his absence. What will he find when he returns home?
Relationships: Greg Lestrade/John Watson, Sherlock Holmes/Greg Lestrade, Sherlock Holmes/Greg Lestrade/John Watson, Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Comments: 4
Kudos: 68





	A Lesson in Pyrotechnics

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: Any errors contained within are entirely my own, this is proofread but not beta read or Brit-picked. Please let me know if you find any issues, I will gratefully and happily fix them. And the same goes for my tagging and rating of the story as well, I'm still fairly new to this site.
> 
> Additional note: I do not guarantee that the events being depicted in this work are accurate representations of mental health issues as they pertain to real life. I can only vouch for my own personal experiences and research that was completed throughout the writing process. Please bear that in mind while reading.

Knowing that Bonfire Night was coming, and fireworks inevitably with it, had provided the three of them with the opportunity to prepare as much as was humanly possible. 

They still weren’t exactly certain as to how John’s PTSD would react, especially after having been moments away from burning alive within a bonfire the year prior, so they fully intended to shelter in place in 221B. Cheesy spy novels were queued, an assortment of Chinese takeout dishes were secured, and any alcohol was entirely off limits for fear of it blurring the lines between reality and memory.

All went according to plan during the day. Sherlock was entirely preoccupied with some experiment involving earthworms and their digestion of decomposing tissue, John puttered around the flat making tea and writing up their latest case for his blog, and Greg caught up on the paperwork he’d been forced to bring home with him in order to beg the day off. 

Scotland Yard was bracing for impact in its own way, seeing as crime levels typically rose in a dark mirror to the increased passions that accompanied most holidays in London, which had made it a hard sell when Greg had requested the time. But with a promise to keep the ringer on his cell phone turned up high in case they needed to call him in and to clear his desk of its mountain of paperwork, he’d managed to convince his Chief to agree. It also helped that they’d already been nagging him to take some time off in general.

The truth of the matter was that Greg would have told them to sod off if they’d flat out denied his request. He knew that despite how well John was able to hide it the vast majority of the time, the diminutive doctor still struggled with nightmares and panic attacks.

And he’d be damned if he let the job that he’d already given decades of his life to get in the way of him being there for John during one of the very few times a year that his struggles could be predicted.

Thankfully, it hadn’t come to that.

But when the sun had begun to set and his cell phone rang, he knew what it meant. And he was sorely tempted not to even answer it. He stood over the desk where it sat, vibrating and trilling insistently with the name “Sally Donovan” and a photo of her drunk at last year’s Christmas party displayed on the screen, and stared down at it in contemplation.

“It’s alright Greg.” John said from his armchair, giving the older man a small reassuring smile. “Answer it.”

Greg hesitated for another moment, grimacing and rubbing at his face, before finally giving in with an audible groan. He snatched the phone up and accepted the call before he could change his mind again.

“You know I hate to disturb you boss, but we need you down at Battersea Park. It looks like a massacre happened here, it’s a bloody mess.” Donovan apologized again before continuing, rattling off more details as Greg locked eyes with John.

John’s warm cobalt eyes were empathetic and understanding, his blond and silver fringe flopping in front of them as he nodded slightly at him. The compassionate acceptance of Greg’s duty just made his heart sink even lower though.

“Yeah, alright…” Greg interrupted gruffly. “Just give me a few to get everything sorted and then I’ll be on my way.”

“You got it.” She confirmed before ending the call.

“John, I…” Greg began to say before he’d even lowered the phone from his ear, but the shorter man had already moved to stand in front of him.

“It’s okay.” John said, taking the phone out of his hand and slipping it into Greg’s pocket for him. He framed Greg’s grey stubble covered face between his hands and angled it down towards him. “We knew this was a possibility. I’ll still have Sherlock here to keep me company. I’ll force feed him some of the takeout and he’ll probably spoil the movie for me, just another night in with the loveable prat.”

“I know, I just… I still don’t like it.” Greg sighed, greedily accepting a kiss from John and leaning in for more when he started to pull back. “I’ll be back as quick as I can, I promise.” He whispered against his lips.

“You better.” John grinned, biting his lip as he stared at Greg’s mouth with heat in his eyes. “We’ll be waiting.”

“We’ll be waiting for what?” Sherlock drawled as he stepped out of the kitchen, apparently done with his experiment for the time being.

“I got called in. Someone apparently murdered a whole slew of homeless men and dressed them up like Guy Fawkes, propped them on top of the pyres for tonight in Battersea. Sounds like a fucking mess.” Greg said.

“Sounds boring.” He rumbled in that dulcet baritone of his, sprawling gracefully onto his leather chair with a disdainful wave of his hand. “Sooner you leave, the sooner you’ll be back to us.”

“Yeah? Any tips to ease the way Sunshine?” Greg asked, half-joking with a derisive snort.

“Examine their clothing. Also, look into the homeless population local to the area. It was likely one of their own that did it, someone with anger issues and a history of mental instability. It’s how he got his revenge.” Sherlock answered without even looking up.

Greg blinked, wondering how he could still be taken back by Sherlock’s insights even after all these years. “Well, ta very much.” That was a solid place for him to start at least.

He stepped forward and swept Sherlock’s dark curls back with one hand, leaning down to place a gentle kiss on his forehead. Sherlock tilted his head back afterwards, lifting his mouth in search of Greg’s lips still without even bothering to look up at him. Greg chuckled and willingly obliged, savoring the taste of the younger man’s mouth before pulling back regretfully.

“Alright…” Greg rubbed at his face with both hands, willfully choosing to ignore the rough feeling of his stubble. If they wanted to call him in on his first requested day off in what felt like years, they could take what they damn well got.

He didn’t bother changing out of the simple linen shirt and black trousers he was wearing, slightly rumpled from lounging around the flat all day. Instead, he just threw on a suit jacket and his worn wool coat over top. Sliding on his loafers, he patted his pockets to make sure he had everything before heading out.

Once he was certain that he did, he hesitated in the doorway to the sitting room for a moment, gazing back at his two lovers with a longing look. A small part of him was still afraid that he’d lose them the same way he’d lost his wife. Too many hours at the office, called in at all times of the night and during practically every major holiday, thoughts of cases and paperwork consuming his every waking moment even while at home.

But he knew the difference between Laura and them. Where she’d huff and grumble and kick whenever he’d wake her up by crawling into bed last at night, they'd draw him close with soft murmurs of welcome and stroking hands that soothed his racing mind right to sleep. When he was too strung out and exhausted to keep the plans they’d made for the rare days he had off, she’d sigh and hold a grudge against him for cancelling. But with Sherlock and John, they went through the post-case crash together, making self care a group activity as they drank overly sweet tea and scarfed down whatever takeout they could get their hands on before piling onto the bed together in a giant tangle of limbs and passing out for twelve hours straight.

“Kisses for the road?” John asked with a smile, glancing up from where he was starting one of the movies they’d queued, Sherlock already rattling off deductions about the actors in a grumbling tone next to him.

Greg happily obliged, John’s sweet sipping kiss making the pang in his chest dissolve and Sherlock’s unexpected flash of tongue sending heat coursing through his body.

With that he left without another word, the three of them expressing everything they could possibly want to say through their actions, rendering those three little words unnecessary except for the rarest of circumstances. It made them more powerful that way.

He drove to the site Donovan had directed him to in a thoughtful daze, only breaking out of it long enough to notice when the sun had finally finished setting, casting London into its usual neon highlighted darkness. Once he arrived, he was swept into the investigation and consumed by it so entirely that he didn’t even pay the fireworks any mind when they started whistling and flashing across the sky.

Time felt like it had taken on its own form, the way it often did when he was wrapped up in a case. Passing in fits and starts during moments of intense action, seeming to drag and slow during deep research and deciphering clues from the evidence. He didn’t realize that hours had passed until he found himself absentmindedly wishing that Sherlock had been intrigued by the case enough to come out and solve it for him.

That’s when he noticed that he had missed three calls from John, a fourth one demanding his attention as his phone chirped and vibrated in his pocket. 

“Fuck.” He cursed, mentally kicking himself for allowing the case to absorb his attention so entirely that he'd temporarily forgotten about his concern for the man he’d left at home.

He accepted the call without hesitation, his heart stuttering in his chest as he stuck a finger in his other ear to dampen the ambient noise and stepped off into a side alley for some privacy, already bracing to find John panic stricken on the other end of the line.

“Greg?” John’s voice was frantic.

“John, are you alright?” Greg forced himself to take a deep breath, his body instinctively wanting to panic as well. He had never been good at seeing his loved ones suffering and in pain, but he knew that he had to be the calm voice of reason the former Army soldier needed him to be in that moment.

John’s response was a stream of words that Greg couldn’t understand, but recognized from the previous anxiety attacks and flashbacks he’d helped him through in the past. John sometimes reverted into speaking Pashto, only when he had just woken up from a nightmare or was feeling particularly unsafe, and he was speaking it now.

Only the sight of Donovan watching him from where she stood conferring with Anderson and his team over some of the forensic evidence kept Greg from immediately bolting for his car, case and career be damned.

He had never minded being responsible for others, in fact it was usually a point of pride and identity for him. But in that moment, he cursed himself for having an obligation to anyone other than the two amazing men that shared his heart and made him feel alive.

“John, love, I can’t understand what you’re saying. What can I do?” Greg asked anxiously.

Another string of Pashto, John’s voice rising both in volume and pitch as he began to border on hysteria. Greg could hear the tears caught in his throat and he automatically took three steps down the alley and towards his car before forcing himself to stop. He turned and leaned his back against the wall, allowing his head to drop back to rest against the brick building as he rubbed at his eyes with his thumb and forefingers.

“I”m here, John, I’m here. Can you look around the room for me please? You’re in 221B Baker Street. You’re home in London, England.” He prayed to God that would help ground him even just a bit. “Do you want me to keep talking? Is my voice helping at all?”

John let out a sob, his tear-filled murmuring drowned out by the sound of a man’s deep voice yelling in the background, also in a foreign language but one that wasn’t Pashto. It sounded Russian almost, all harsh consonants and guttural tones.

“Is that Sherlock shouting?” Greg asked in bewilderment.

Something that sounded like a confirmation came from John, his voice shaking slightly as he sniffed.

“Was that a yes?”

He made the same sound as before.

“Does that mean yes?” Greg repeated, desperate not to misunderstand the other man.

Same sound once again. Greg was determined to remember it, seeing as now he could ask yes or no questions and finally gain some clarity on the situation.

“Do you know why he is shouting?”

A different sound.

“Does that mean no?”

"Yes." John answered in Pashto.

Now they were getting somewhere.

“Does he seem okay?”

“No.”

“Less okay than usual?”

“Yes.”

“Fuck. Are you okay?”

“No.”

Sherlock began yelling again in the background, drowning everything out before Greg could ask another question. His voice was flooded with emotion in a way that Greg had never quite heard from him before, agitated and distraught and almost out of control. Soon John began calling back to him, his voice commanding and sharp over the sound of movement, random rustling as if he were scrambling about.

When it dawned on Greg that John and Sherlock’s tones of voice were exactly the same, just expressed in different languages, it felt like the ground had dropped out from beneath his feet as he realized his mistake. He had been so focused on trying to be there for John that he had completely failed Sherlock in the process.

Sherlock was loath to speak about his experiences during those two years that he had spent away. Greg and John had managed to pry bits and pieces out of him in moments of unsuspecting vulnerability, while soothing John after his shouting from a nightmare had woken them all up or when a stray thought crossed his mind while he was distracted enough to speak entirely unfiltered.

What they had managed to find out hadn’t exactly sounded like an extended vacation, one spent going insane under Mycroft’s thumb while being babysat in his safehouses like they might have suspected. Sleeping rough on the streets of Shanghai, being stabbed in Rio, catching rotavirus in New Delhi, getting thrown off a third story balcony in Barcelona… None of it had sounded particularly pleasant.

They’d tried to broach his feelings on the subject once and had been shut down so firmly that they’d backed off and never tried again. They were just happy to have him back, overjoyed to the point of being willing to believe that he’d let them know if there was anything worth worrying about.

Clearly that hadn’t been the case.

“John, I’m coming home, okay?” Greg said with grim determination, making a beeline for Donovan and the rest of his team. “I’m heading home right now.”

He moved the speaker away from his mouth, covering the bottom half of the phone with his hand as he leaned in to tell Donovan, “I’m sorry but I have to go. Emergency at home. I’ll call you as soon as I can, okay?”

At her understanding nod he took off for his car at a jog, forever grateful to have a dependable sergeant he could count on to cover for him. For all her snarking and scoffing, she was damn good at her job and would have his back without a second thought when it truly mattered, in cases like this.

The drive was a blur again, though the journey back to Baker Street was fueled by anxiety and worry, versus being merely contemplative on the trip away. His foot was practically glued to the floor, screeching through yellow lights seconds before they turned red and cutting off cars left and right. He undoubtedly broke his personal record for fastest trip home while driving an unmarked car.

The whole time he kept his phone pinched between the side of his head and his shoulder, determinedly ignoring the cramp forming in his neck. The call was still active, the noises coming from the other end of the line registering in an absent-minded way as he focused on the road.

When he was only three streets away and the shouting started to suddenly taper off, he couldn't tell if he was glad for it or more afraid for the two men than ever.

He impatiently sat at a red light, two streets off and starting to feel unnerved by the eerie silence that had descended both outside the car and on the phone call. Then a massive red and blue firework suddenly went soaring into the night sky and exploded into a giant flurry of color with an extraordinarily loud burst of noise, making him jump and sending the phone flying down onto the car floor.

He wasted precious time leaning over and scrambling his hand around in a blind attempt to locate it, cursing out loud when he heard that John's shouting had resumed as he tucked the phone back into place.

Ordinarily, Greg never had any particular issues with holidays as a whole. If anything, he enjoyed the excuse to kick his feet up and have a pint or two. In his opinion, there was way too much dark shit out there in the world and people should embrace every possible opportunity they’re given to enjoy life, Bonfire Night being no exception.

But knowing that the pops and bursts of the fireworks could easily be mistaken for the sound of artillery and gunfire, and listening as one of the greatest men he'd ever known suffered as a direct result of that?

In that moment, he genuinely hated the fucking holiday.

Finally he managed to reach 221B, slamming the car into park without a second thought and dashing up the short staircase. But once he had the front door unlocked and he first stepped into the house, his entire demeanor changed.

His steps became light and virtually soundless as he assessed the immediate situation, his head on a swivel and his ears pricked. He wordlessly disconnected the phone call and turned the ringer on his phone off entirely, knowing that any sudden noise could easily spook the two of them.

He had no idea what the true state of things were up in the flat. He hadn’t been able to tell from their shouting on the phone if they were feeling fearful and anxious more than anything, or if they were agitated and inches away from lashing out. Fear aggression could manifest itself in all manner of ways, and the thought of the two normally loving men viewing each other as an enemy and acting accordingly, only to deeply regret their actions once they came back to themselves later, broke Greg’s heart.

While he didn’t mind the threat he himself faced by entering into the situation, he would still proceed under the assumption that they were armed and more dangerous than usual. 

They had locked both John and Sherlock's guns up in a small safe in the spare bedroom that only Greg knew the current combination for, but he was also under no illusions that meant they were defenseless. 

The flat was full of items that could serve as makeshift weapons. Not to mention the fact that their fists could be weapons enough, seeing as Sherlock was formally trained in judo and had moonlit as MI6 for his brother, and John was a former Army soldier well versed in all the vulnerable points on the human body.

So Greg had to precede carefully, purposely making his descent up the stairs measured and audible. It would be worse for him to appear in the flat out of thin air, startling them and sending them reeling mentally, than it was to give them time to anticipate and prepare for his arrival.

Fireworks had been shooting off sporadically but consistently throughout all of this, and he hopelessly wished that they would end the festivities sooner rather than later. But he knew realistically that once London had truly gotten started in their celebrations, they were loath to properly wind down until the sun finally began to rise the next morning.

When he got to the landing, he would have been able to tell that something was wrong even if he hadn’t been warned ahead of time. The door separating the sitting room from the landing was closed, which it normally never was whenever any of them were home.

Well, aside from the rare instances that Sherlock got a bee in his bonnet about them having sex in front of the fireplace; they wanted to spare Mrs. Hudson from any wayward noises or glimpses in case she came upstairs unannounced.

He knocked lightly on the doorframe before slowly and smoothly turning the knob, cracking the door open a couple inches.

“Sherlock? John?” Greg called through the gap. “It’s me. I’m coming in, okay?”

No response other than a faint shuffling, not that he was really expecting one though.

After taking a deep steadying breath, he pushed the door all the way open and stepped into the flat. He had his arms raised halfway into the air, showing that his hands were empty, his posture non-threatening and unassuming while still tensed and ready for whatever may come.

Expecting one or both of them to immediately jump out at him, he was more thrown by the lack of confrontation than he would have been if one had actually happened.

Instead, the flat was dark, the sitting room illuminated only by the flickering light of the television and the glow of the street lamps as they peered in through the parted curtains. The music of the movie credits as they played in the background was a low murmur, punctuated only by the distant booms of the celebratory explosives that had caused this desolate scene in the first place.

Greg stood in place, barely five steps into the room as he swept it with his gaze, examining each of the shadows for any sign of the two men. The small part of him that was afraid that they’d become distraught enough to take off blindly into the night was quickly growing, and he briefly began to consider placing a call and requesting that his fellow officers be on the lookout for them.

It would certainly jeopardize their professional standing with the Yard in reference to having access to active cases, but he’d much rather face their wrath for having risked their access to the work than to stand idly by as they potentially came to harm or suffered for longer than was absolutely necessary.

Thankfully, that train of thought was stopped right in its tracks by the faint sound of snuffling that he heard coming from the far side of the kitchen. He headed slowly in that direction, getting a wild hair to check beneath the kitchen table.

When he crouched down, his heart gave a wrench upon finding John hiding beneath it. 

The small blond man was rocking slightly, curled up on his forearms and knees with his hands clamped down hard over both his ears. His lips were trembling as he repeatedly muttered something to himself, too low for Greg to be able to make out the words. His beautiful blue eyes were clenched tightly shut, tears rolling silently down his cheeks.

Greg shifted down into a kneeling position to mirror him, grimacing slightly as his knees protested with little pops and crackles of their own. He hesitated briefly, not wanting to frighten John, but he knew that touching him would be the only way that he would be able to get his attention.

He reached out slowly and gently brushed his fingertips against the back of one of John’s hands. He quickly drew back when John immediately recoiled away from him, his eyes flying open and his hands coming up to protect his face as he started trying to crawl further beneath the table and away from Greg.

Then recognition dawned in his eyes and he paused, hesitating as he glanced around the room in confusion. “Greg…?” He finally asked in a hoarse voice, likely caused by all the yelling.

“I’m here.” Greg said softly, eagerly curling his fingers around John’s hand when it moved searchingly towards him. He placed it against his cheek, reassuring the younger man that he was actually there and not just a figment of his imagination. “You’re home with me at 221B Baker Street. We’re here in London, everyone is celebrating Bonfire Night. The loud noises you keep hearing are from the fireworks.”

“London?” John repeated, his voice tremulous and hesitant. “Fireworks?”

“That’s right.” Greg soothed, breathing a small sigh of relief that he’d switched back to English. He didn’t know what he would do if John ever got stuck speaking Pashto.

“Not Kandahar or Helmand?” 

“No, John. We’re home in England.”

John paused for a long time, his eyes flitting back and forth as he stared down at the kitchen floor and processed Greg’s words. “How do you know?” He eventually whispered, shame filling his eyes when he finally looked up at Greg again. “How can I be certain?”

“That’s easy, love.” Greg said softly, slowly reaching his hand up to wipe the tears on John’s cheeks away with his fingers. “Did you know me while you were stationed in Afghanistan?”

“...No.” He breathed out shakily, before repeating the word again with growing certainty. “No, I didn’t.”

“So how could you be there while I’m sitting right here in front of you?”

“I’m confused.” John whimpered, the pure honesty in his voice breaking Greg’s heart.

“I know, love.” He said, stroking his cheek soothingly with his thumb. “I’ve got you though. You’re safe with me.”

John reached out, pulling Greg beneath the table with him before practically collapsing into the policeman’s arms. Greg held him as close as humanly possible, tucking the blond head beneath his chin as the smaller man trembled against his chest. He rubbed his back as he slowly rocked them from side to side, the feeling reminiscent of a parent soothing a child after they woke from a nightmare.

The only differences being that they were lovers instead of parent and child, and John suffered from heart wrenching nightmares during his waking moments as well. Greg would give anything in the world to be able to change that for him.

After several minutes, John’s shaking eased and his silent sobbing finally tapered off. Slowly he pulled back from the other man, gazing up into his warm brown eyes as something dawned on him.

“...Where’s Sherlock?” John asked, looking around the room anxiously with a furrowed brow. “Is he okay?”

“I don’t know.” Greg answered honestly, though he immediately regretted it when panic flashed across John’s face and he hurried to explain. “I think the fireworks triggered him as well. I haven’t had the chance to find him yet.”

“Oh my god, Sherlock’s hurting and here I am making everything all about me again.” John choked out, his left hand beginning to visibly tremble as stress began to get the better of him again.

Greg winced. He'd thought that John’s guilt over physically going after Sherlock in the restaurant during his botched homecoming and holding a grudge against him for several months following it had eased, but apparently not. It didn’t matter to John that he hadn’t known the reasons behind Sherlock’s actions and that Mary had been strategically placed in his life to manipulate him against the consulting detective; he still blamed himself for reacting the way that he did.

The older man made a mental note to himself to address the issue with John at a later date.

“No, don’t you dare feel guilty for needing to be comforted John. You’re hurting too and you deserve to be cared for just as much as anybody else, you hear me?” Greg said seriously, forcing him to meet his eyes.

After hesitating for a moment, John reluctantly nodded that he understood, though the other man got the feeling that he didn’t quite believe what he had just agreed with. Greg added that to his mental note to be addressed later on as well.

“Would you rather stay here or would you like to help me look for him?” He asked, giving John the choice since he wasn’t entirely certain himself whether the blond man was stable enough to move out from beneath the table just yet. But since the youngest member of their trio had been brought up, Greg’s worry for him had moved from nagging at the back of his mind to positively screaming at him from the forefront.

“No, I want to help.” John sniffed, scrubbing at his face with both hands for a moment before giving the other man a decisive nod. “He needs us.”

Greg wanted to point out that John needed them as well, equally as much and that he shouldn’t inadvertently harm his mental health by putting Sherlock’s above his own, but he knew that the words would have just fallen on deaf ears.

Instead, he spared them both the lecture and just nodded in return. He began to slowly back out from beneath the kitchen table, John following closely behind him. He had already risen to his feet and was helping John rise to his own when a particularly loud firework went off, making them both flinch and almost sending John back beneath the table entirely.

Instead, he took a large breath and squeezed both of Greg’s hands with his own, giving the older man a nod when he gave John an inquisitive look, silently asking him if he was okay. Greg nodded back at him again and drew John close, keeping a firm hold of his hand as they both regarded the flat thoughtfully.

Where would Sherlock be hiding?

That was the unspoken question they were both considering. As far as places to hide within the flat, there weren’t many. The sitting room and kitchen, apart from the kitchen table, were relatively wide open. There was the bathroom, the bedroom the three of them shared, and their spare bedroom upstairs.

Mrs. Hudson’s place was out, seeing as she would have let the two of them know if Sherlock had gone scurrying into 221A. 221C came to mind, as well as several of his usual haunts and all of his known boltholes, but Greg wouldn’t worry about those until he knew for certain that 221B was empty of the dark-haired man.

The two of them proceeded to the bathroom first, which only took a single cursory glance around the room and into the tub to be certain that Sherlock wasn’t camped out in there.

From there they slowly stepped into their bedroom, which was entirely dark apart from the hallway light shining through the now open doorway. The room was mainly composed of their king-sized bed and oversized wardrobes; they were always fighting for space, both for their clothes in the closet and their bodies beneath the blankets. They each acted put out and perturbed by the issue, but they all knew that they’d rather suffer from slightly overcrowding than for the three of them to be split up in any way.

John opened the wardrobe door with a slight click, briefly gazing inside on the off chance that Sherlock had chosen it as a hideout. It clicked again as he shut it, turning to watch Greg as he used the light on his cell phone for a torch as he bent down to check beneath the bed. 

Both men held their breath, slightly anxious to see how the man would react to being discovered while stuck in place beneath a massive piece of furniture, but they found the space devoid of anything but dust balls.

They couldn’t decide if they were thankful for that or not.

“If he managed to run off without me noticing while I was cowering under the table like a bloody coward, I swear to God…” John said desolately, running his hands through his hair and pulling at it slightly in an effort to ground himself with the pain.

“None of that now, love.” Greg said as he gently pried his hands away from his poor hair follicles. “If anyone is responsible here, it’s me. I knew that tonight would be rough but I still went in anyway when they called.”

“You have a duty to the public Greg, and neither of us realized how poorly Sherlock would react.” John said. “Don’t blame yourself.”

“Well if I don’t get to blame myself, then neither do you.” He answered decisively.

The two of them gave each other a small smile in the midst of their worried search, both bolstered by the quick affection-filled kiss they shared before returning to the situation at hand.

They linked fingers again, Greg’s hand giving John’s a small squeeze of reassurance each time another firework went off outside the flat, and up the stairs they went to the spare bedroom.

These days, it served as a storage space for them more than anything. The closet and dresser currently contained their summer clothes, and several boxes of mementos that neither John nor Greg could bring themselves to part with were stacked in the corner of the room.

And there, sitting right on top of the small writing desk, was the small gun safe Greg had bought for locking up the firearms he didn’t officially acknowledge that John and Sherlock owned while they were at home.

The very gun safe that was currently sitting empty, its door swung wide open to reveal the pointed lack of firearms within it.

“Fuck,” Greg cursed, rubbing at his eyes with his free hand. “I knew I shouldn’t have cheaped out and got the biometric lock instead.”

“Do you really think that Sherlock bloody Holmes couldn’t find his way around a biometric lock?” John snorted with a rueful half smile before giggling slightly, knowing that it was highly inappropriate but struggling to cope with the stress otherwise.

“Yeah, you’re probably right.” Greg admitted reluctantly. 

He felt his coat pocket suddenly begin to vibrate and his heart jumped, hope filling him at the idea that Sherlock could be calling him for help. He quickly pulled his phone out of his pocket, only to frown down at the number being displayed. He’d pointedly never saved it in his contacts out of principle, but he’d been called from that number enough times in the past that he’d still inadvertently memorized it by heart.

“Bloody meddling Mycroft…” Greg growled before accepting the call, putting it on speaker so John could hear as well. “What? I’m in the middle of something.”

“Good evening to you as well, Detective Inspector.” The man answered in an overly cool tone. “I do hope the urgent task you’re referring to is either you or Dr. Watson explaining to me exactly why my younger brother is currently camped out in 221C with two pistols and a giant duvet.” He somehow still managed to sound accusatory and omnipresent, even while admitting to not being the all-knowing mighty god he liked to pretend to be.

“We think the fireworks triggered something that happened to him during his time away, though we’re not certain what.” Greg answered, hoping Sherlock wouldn’t be too cross with him for sharing that information with his overbearing elder brother. “Any insights you’d like to provide us with?”

“None that you have the security clearance for.” The man responded primly.

“This isn’t a bloody game!” Greg gritted out from between clenched teeth, feeling moments away from flat out yelling at the infuriatingly smug man. “Tell us something that’ll help us be there properly for Sherlock or sod off.”

“If he’s speaking a foreign language, inform me which one in particular and we can proceed from there.” Mycroft finally said, something akin to sincerity in his voice.

“Cheers.” Greg muttered before ending the call, tapping his thumb against the phone’s touchscreen with much more pressure than it required. He fully intended not to tell the elder Holmes a damn thing.

“221C then.” He said, looking down into the shorter man’s tawny face, which was cast half in shadow by the hall light.

“Once more unto the breach.” John said in return. He still appeared to be slightly shaky and uncertain but better than before, his equilibrium further steadying with each additional moment he spent by Greg’s side.

“Quoting Shakespeare, eh? Educated little sod, aren’t you?” Greg teased him with a grin.

“Piss off.” John responded cheerfully before following him down both staircases to the entrance of the basement flat.

Greg had been worried about getting past the locked door, but found that it was slightly ajar. They both shared a look, wordlessly communicating their plan for entry, then acted.

“Sherlock? It’s Greg, John is here with me too. We’re coming in.” He called before swinging the door open, John right behind him as he descended the staircase.

The door on the landing was already completely open, providing them with an unobstructed view of the damp and musty smelling flat’s main area. There, seated in the middle of the room with his back resting against the far wall and cloaked in the dark blue duvet from their bedroom, was Sherlock.

They saw him at the exact same moment that he saw them.

The next second, he was flying to his feet. The duvet slid off and pooled around his braced legs as his arms raised, a pistol in either hand. He aimed right at the two men that had just entered, his fingers on the triggers. He shouted something at them in the same language as before, a rough and angry sound that his hostile tone of voice managed to amplify even further.

They instantly put their hands in the air, standing side by side near the doorway but making no motion to retreat. John and Greg just stood there calmly, regarding their lover with only concern and love for him in their eyes.

“Sherlock? It’s okay. We’re home in London. You came back to us, it’s alright now.” John coaxed.

“You’re safe Sunshine. All that noise is just a bunch of drunk tossers celebrating Bonfire Night with lots of fireworks.” Greg added.

Sherlock’s verdigris eyes darted back and forth between the two of them, the whirring of his mind practically visible as he analyzed and deduced the situation at staggering speeds. When his grip on the handles of the pistols seemed to relax and his arms slightly dropped, blinking rapidly as his brow began to furrow in confusion, Greg chanced taking a step forward.

He immediately knew it was the wrong decision when Sherlock tensed again, snarling out what sounded like a warning before tightening his grip on the guns and cocking them.

“Sherlock…” John started before trailing off, seeming uncertain of what he could even say to begin trying to comfort the younger man. “If only Mycroft had told us something that would help.”

He didn’t realize that he had spoken out loud, rather than just thinking it in his head, until Greg finally said, “I’m calling the bastard back.”

Greg sighed audibly as he pulled up the recent call list on his phone and tapped on the elder Holmes’s number. He was pissed at having to admit that they needed his help, but he was also willing to do absolutely anything in the world if it meant even the chance of being able to help Sherlock.

“I assume you have answers for me, Detective Inspector?”

“I don’t know what bloody language it is, other than the fact that it’s clearly not English or Pashto, or any of the usual ones like French or Spanish.” Greg said, pitching his voice low and keeping his words slow for fear of agitating Sherlock any further.

“Sounds Slavic, like Russian or something.” John whispered. Greg nodded in thanks and relayed the additional explanation.

A dignified sigh sounded from the other end of the line before Mycroft said, “Likely Serbian then. Am I on speaker?”

“Hang on.” Greg said before fumbling with the phone. “Alright, you are now.”

The next several minutes were tense as Mycroft began conversing with Sherlock in rapidfire Serbian, his responses calm and measured while his younger brother slowly became increasingly agitated. His hands visibly trembled around the guns and his arms seemed to want to drop of their own accord. He kept rolling his shoulders and forcing them to stay raised, wincing and fighting against his own body as he appeared to argue with his older brother.

Greg noticed that one of John’s hands had started to unconsciously move towards his in search of comfort. He gladly met it in the middle, needing some grounding of his own at seeing their lover so out of sorts. Sherlock was rarely ever emotional or out of control, and never to this point. It was hard to watch.

John gave an involuntary gasp when a particularly loud firework went off, taking him by surprise. When it was immediately followed by three more quick bursts, the room briefly shifted from a dark London basement to a bright field hospital, its lights flickering in and out as the mortar attacks affected the base’s electrical power supply.

The former soldier let out a whimper and he took the two small steps that would place him directly against Greg’s side without considering the effect his movement would have on Sherlock.

The dark haired man’s voice grew even louder, his shouted warnings starting up again with renewed fervor. Then to John and Greg’s horror, his right hand moved to point John’s service pistol at his own temple.

“No!” Both men automatically shouted, their hands moving to hold each other close in desperation and fear. It was only their grip on each other that kept them both from staggering forward in a blind attempt to protect Sherlock from himself.

“What’s happened?” Mycroft demanded urgently, having switched back to English.

“I’m sorry, I got scared and stepped closer to Greg without thinking.” John explained, his voice trembling. “Now Sherlock is… holding one of the guns against his head.” He had a hard time even getting the words out.

“That explains why he’s saying that he’d rather die than stay a prisoner.” Mycroft translated, his voice devoid of emotion to the point of sounding practically robotic.

“Prisoner?” Greg asked, entirely unnerved and barely able to blink, let alone take his eyes off the devastating scene in front of him. He had the irrational fear that if he looked away for even just a second, the other man would end up lost to them forever.

“During the last few months of Sherlock’s time away, he was unfortunately discovered while infiltrating a Serbian military base and was held for interrogation. Their methods for extracting information are primitive, but generally effective.” 

“Are you telling us that he was tortured?” John demanded, his voice simultaneously incredulous and horror struck.

“You’re lovers, are you not? Are you telling me that you haven’t seen the scars across his back? Or are you both really that blind?” The edge that Mycroft’s voice had taken on raised both their hackles, bristling at the implication of his words.

“Of course we’ve bloody seen them! He told us that he was dragged behind a car aways during a street race in Seoul!” Greg spat, his tone murderous.

John gave him a concerned look, stroking the back of the other man’s hand with his thumb reassuringly when he noticed that the policeman had begun to tremble with rage. 

“While that is likely true, I can personally assure you that those scars were not solely caused by roadrash.”

“If you know what he’s been through and that he’s holding a gun to his head, why in the fuck aren’t you here in person?” Greg demanded. “I remember how much you were always up my arse while I was helping him detox in the past; this situation seems a step further than that.”

“When it became clear that he would not be able to escape imprisonment on his own, I was forced to intervene on his behalf and extracted him myself, with the help of some of MI6’s finest of course.”

Mycroft heaved a deep sigh, genuine regret lacing his words as he continued, “Unfortunately, the cover role that I undertook required me to stand idly by while he was being beaten, until he finally managed to drive the other man from the room with his deductions. I fear that being in the same room as him while he’s in this state would only serve to drive him further into the flashback.”

“Christ.” John said, dropping his head to rest against Greg’s shoulder as he breathed deeply. His shoulders hitched with every breath and his hands shook uncontrollably. Combining the residual effects of his own previous flashbacks with the continued auditory triggers of the fireworks, just the very idea of Sherlock being tortured almost proved to be too much for him.

“John, do you think that it might be better if you went back upstairs?” Greg asked carefully, not wanting to offend the smaller man but also not wanting him to suffer any more than he already had.

“No, no,” John immediately insisted, raising his head again and straightening his spine, pushing his shoulders back and lifting his chin with a proud sniff. “I can’t leave him while he’s like this. I won’t.”

“Alright.” Greg relented, not willing to push or fight him on it.

After both men remained silent for a moment, Mycroft finally added, “I deeply regret my inability to assist in person, but I can help translate for you at the very least.”

That verbal nudge forced John and Greg to once again start racking their brains, trying to figure out what to say.

While they’d been getting the backstory from Mycroft, Sherlock’s legs had seemingly given out on him. He’d slid slowly down the wall, eventually coming to rest on the floor with his torso leaning off to one side. He bore the brunt of his weight on his right upper arm and elbow with the gun still placed against his temple, his left arm extended halfheartedly up to aim at the two men with the other pistol.

He seemed to be losing energy quickly, the stress of the flashback likely taking its toll on him as he fought to remain vigilant.

“Tell him that he doesn’t have to be afraid, that he’s home in England and safe with us.” John requested.

When Mycroft relayed the message in Serbian, Sherlock automatically scoffed and snarled a response.

“He says that of course his mind would have you say that.”

“He thinks we’re just in his mind?” Greg asked, slightly confused.

“I imagine that my little brother likely used his mind palace as a mental refuge during the course of his interrogations. It served its purpose by helping him survive the pain, but now it’s harder for him to tell reality apart from whatever reassuring scenes his mind cast the two of you in during his attempts at self-soothing.” Mycroft explained.

“So you’re saying that he survived being tortured by imagining us being there with him and comforting him through it? And he thinks that us being here is just further proof that he’s actually still in Serbia?” John asked.

“Essentially, yes.”

“So how do we convince him that we’re real, and not just figments of his imagination running around in that great big mind palace of his?” Greg wondered.

His heart wrenched at the pure exhaustion that was beginning to show on Sherlock’s face. His shoulder and arm must have been screaming in agony by now, and the way he was half slumped onto the cold ground didn’t appear to be doing the rest of his body any favors either.

“Behave in a manner that his mind never would have imagined you to engage in, based on the knowledge he had of the two of you at that point in time.” Mycroft made it sound simple and effortless.

“So we have to do something that he wouldn’t suspect us to do before he left, but… we do now?” John puzzled out loud, knowing that the two of them likely sounded like bloody parrots to Mycroft at this point, but he didn’t care. The posh git could call him a goldfish all day long if he liked, as long as they were able to break Sherlock out of the flashback.

Mycroft gave an audible sigh before saying in an overly patient tone, “Precisely, Dr. Watson.”

Suddenly, a lightbulb went off in Greg’s head and he gave an excited gasp. “Oh, that’s brilliant!”

Without wasting another moment, he drew John even further into his arms and pressed his lips against the smaller man’s mouth. 

John froze for a moment, his mind racing to catch up with Greg’s train of thought. Once it finally occurred to him as well, he relented with a relieved and satisfied little moan, surrendering to the other man’s efforts. He allowed Greg’s tongue to slip into his mouth when it prodded gently against his lips, and he became thoroughly lost in the older man’s skillful snogging.

When he finally came back to himself, it was to the sound of Sherlock’s voice.

“...John?” He asked hesitantly, blinking hard and gazing up at them in bafflement. “Greg?”

“Hello Sunshine.” Greg said with a relieved grin, practically melting with relief.

“Can we come closer?” John asked, barely managing to restrain himself long enough for Sherlock to give them a confused nod.

Moving as quickly as they dared for fear of startling the younger man, the two of them hurriedly eased the guns out of his hands. They took one each, John his former service pistol and Greg the revolver Sherlock favored, before decocking them and tucking them between the small of their backs and their waistbands for the time being.

John set about fussing over Sherlock, placing the duvet back around his shoulders despite the man’s protestations that he didn’t know why it was even there in the first place. John bit his lip and didn’t bother remarking on the slight tremors he could see coursing through Sherlock’s body, as he knew that they were mentally induced and not because the consulting detective was physically cold.

Greg used that moment to take the call off speaker, placing his phone against his ear as he kept one arm wrapped loosely around John’s waist as he looked over Sherlock.

“I suppose this means that I should be thanking you.” Greg admitted begrudgingly. Despite how much he didn’t like it, he knew that Mycroft’s interference had saved them precious time in locating Sherlock and understanding not only the root of his flashback, but also how to finally break him out of it.

“Seeing as I would be required to reciprocate based on all your efforts over the years, particularly these last several months following his return and the beginning of your…” Here Mycroft paused for a moment, before continuing with a sniff, “romantic entanglements, I’d much prefer that you didn’t.”

Greg let out a sardonic laugh in response, though he was too grateful to be particularly bothered by the man’s derision.

“Do let me know how he fares the rest of the evening and tomorrow. I have therapists with the proper security clearances on speed dial if the need arises. I did attempt to get him to consult with one upon his return, but we both know how dreadfully stubborn my brother can be. Perhaps you will have better luck convincing him.”

“Yeah, alright. No promises.” He hedged, though he fully intended to speak with his lovers about getting them both either back into or starting on therapy. Hell, he’d even go himself if that made it easier for them to agree. He knew that he had plenty of self-esteem and trust issues from his first marriage that he still needed to work through.

Greg rang off with the elder Holmes before returning his full attention to the two men in front of him. As he kept an eye on them while they all trundled up the two flights of stairs back to 221B, he knew that he’d likely have hell to pay in the morning when he finally called Donovan and got up to speed on the case. His Chief would be pissed if he found out about him taking off on his team, but he didn’t care.

He’d learned from his first marriage with his wife and their distinct lack of children just what the price of prioritizing work over the rest of his life truly was, and it would cost him everything if he let it. Tonight was the just stark reminder he’d needed to remember that lesson.

He wouldn’t allow himself to make that same mistake again, Sherlock and John were too important to him. They were what brought him to life everyday and what kept him alive, even in the moments when he began to truly wonder if it was all worth it.

With them around, the answer was always fuck yes and sod the rest.

And if that meant that his career suffered, or even became entirely unsustainable with his reaffirmed priorities, he would just find himself retiring sooner rather than later. They could work with Gregson and Dimmock on their cases and Greg would just serve as an extra set of eyes or pair of hands, whatever and whenever they needed.

But that was a problem for tomorrow.

Right now, all he cared about was getting some tea and takeout into his boys before bundling them off to bed. They’d burrow beneath the oversized duvet they reclaimed from Sherlock and gripe about the lack of elbow room and blatant pillow hogging by one particularly overgrown prat.

Greg would hold John close, curling the smaller man against his chest and softly stroking his back until he finally fell asleep. Sherlock would be tucked off to the side next to them, the consulting detective wrapped around them like a warm octopus, all bony limbs and a mass of dark curls that would always somehow end up finding a way inside their mouths or tickling their noses.

If one or both of them woke in the middle of the night, afraid and haunted by the past, he’d soothe them back to sleep with gentle hands and comforting whispers, reminding them that they were safe at home and so very loved.

They’d never be alone with their troubles while Greg was around, and he never again intended to leave their sides while storm winds were howling and tidal waves were attempting to batter the shores of their minds.

Be it an anchor or a life raft or a lighthouse, he’d be whatever they needed to weather the storm. And when the rain finally stopped and the sun broke through the clouds, bringing new light and the promise of a better day to come, he’d be by their sides to help greet the dawn.

Together, always.

**Author's Note:**

> Whew! I'm so happy to finally be posting this. I know that it's a bit odd for me to be posting a work about Bonfire Night in the middle of July, but I live in the United States and we just finished celebrating Independence Day. I personally don't mind fireworks since my PTSD from serving in the military isn't combat related and I already know they're coming, but I'm babysitting my ex-boyfriend's dogs for the time being and they didn't enjoy all the loud noises at all. Naturally, the idea for this work popped into my head in the midst of all the chaos and then it was off to the races. I actually intended to focus on Sherlock a bit more, but Greg waved his hand at me practically from the beginning and just sort of took over. 
> 
> Please let me know what you think! Kudos and comments are like crack to fledgling writers like me.


End file.
